


Spagna, no.

by SpadesDame



Series: RomaSpa Mpreg Drabbles and One-shots [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mpreg, Pregnant!Spain, Seme!Romano, Seme!South Italy, affectionate!Romano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:44:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpadesDame/pseuds/SpadesDame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Romano finds Spain cheering for his team in front of the TV, a very frustrated Portugal is on the phone, the living room is a mess of cushions and potato-chips and Spain is being his usual oblivious self. Only he's pregnant and Romano worries- maybe too much sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spagna, no.

Romano dropped the hot pot on the counter with a loud clang as the metal collided with the wooden surface. He might have also ordered it to go to hell or something along the lines as he turned off the stove and the kitchen-hood. The frown deepened and he put his hands on his hips, fists clenched, knuckles against chubby flesh -“love handles” as Spain liked to call them- he refused to admit he had. 

From the living-room, he could hear the Spaniard cheering for his team –who was playing again?- as well as his angry arguing with the Portuguese man that wasn’t even present. Alvarez argued back over the phone that was set on speaker mode, cheering for his own team. 

Lovino washed his hands, knowing that he wasn’t getting rid of the smell of onions anytime soon and grabbed some paper from the kitchen roll before heading to the living room. He froze in the doorway at the sight that greeted him. An overly thrilled Spaniard dressed in red and yellow was jumping up and down on the couch, an open bag of –potato- chips slowly spilling its contents on the floor and the rug. The Italian wrinkled his nose in distaste at that, but it wasn’t his most serious concern at the moment. “Antonio!”

He was ignored. Or, rather, the man hadn’t curses currently spilling through the machine on the end-table. “Oi, Antonio!” Where the hell was that damned remote anyway? Lovino picked a few cushions from the couch, caught the little plastic bag between his thumb and forefinger and let it land on the floor with the opening on top as he finally found what he had been looking for. He muted the game, knowing that him turning it off completely would cause Spain to go ape-shit. 

“Huh? Lovi? Why would you do that?” Wide green eyes finally focused on him with an expression that read “un-cute”. Lovino didn’t care. 

“Bastard! Get down from there! Right now!” The man complied, pouting. Alvarez snorted through the phone. _“Hello to you too, kiddo.”_ “Alvarez, stay out of this.” He had better stay out of this because no drinks and pranks with England are going to save him from Romano’s wrath this time. No friendship, either. Netherlands be damned. Lovino pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers and sighed. “Antonio… what are you doing?”

He opened his mouth after a short pause and Lovino could already see the answer forming in his head: I was, winning? He pointed a finger at him. 

“Antonio do you know how dangerous it is for you to be jumping on the couch like that?” 

Alvarez laughed. _“The bastard has had worse. His head is thicker than that.”_

“Shut up!” Lovino was nearing his boiling point. He was currently beyond half-pissed closer to pissed, but more worried than he wanted to admit. And the bastard wasn’t getting it, just kept looking at him, with those wide, sparkling, green eyes of his full of wonder. He had had enough. He pressed the button on the receiver to end the call. This was between him and Antonio. Alvarez could go fuck himself –or maybe ask Lars- for all he cared. “Antonio, are you even aware of the effect your actions could have on the baby?”  
Spain’s automatic response was to wrap his arms around his stomach protectively. “Like what?” His voice sounded considerably smaller, in contrast to his earlier screaming.  
“Seriously, now?” He could tell that the Spaniard honestly did not know, and he didn’t know if he should be furious or not. He decided against it and sat on the couch with him instead, mindful of the chips –What? The pants are Versace. 

Thing was, he wasn’t sure how to go about it. Antonio’s mood swings had been… boosted, let’s say, lately. Previously put at bay as long as he wasn’t drinking too much or Arthur didn’t go Captain Kirkland, or they did not remind him of this certain… period in the past, he was okay. Lately you did not know what to expect from him in the next minute. He decided to work with the present mood, and go as if trying to explain it to a kid. It was the most common with the Spaniard, anyway.  
“You see,” he began, taking Antonio’s hands in one of his and placing his other palm against the other’s still mostly flat stomach, rubbing it lightly over his shirt. “You know that the baby is depending on you as long as it’s inside you, si? You also know that it’s still too tiny, barely taking up space in there. That’s why you might not notice any changes yet.” 

“Oh, I noticed the nausea alright.” 

Lovino chose to overlook the easily said snappy comment and continued, brushing it off. “But, so tiny a creature, is not all that strong yet, and the connection it has with you in there could easily break, by a fall, a heavy jolting, a hit, that would do nothing to you, since you’re a nation, you’re Spain, but this,” he rubbed his thumb on his belly “is not. Not just yet.” 

He waited for some kind of reaction. None came. Antonio just stared at him. And stared. And stared… 

“You could have a miscarriage, stronzo.” He informed him in exasperation. “Lose the baby, how else am I supposed to say it?” 

Antonio’s mouth opened in a small “o” and Lovino was thankful that it had finally gotten though him. That was until his bottom lip started trembling and his eyes became glassy. Lovino pulled him close with a sigh, combing a hand in his chestnut curls. Antonio buried his face in Lovino’s neck, jaw trembling against the Italian’s collarbone, the game long forgotten. Lovino saw from the corner of his eye that the Portuguese had won and caught the remote, turning it off. “Shh…” he pressed a kiss to his head. “Idiota.” It was spoken softly, more of an endearment than a curse. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“No harm done.” He pulled the other man back, brushing back his hair and wiping his tears gently. “I just want you to be careful from now on, si?” 

“Si. Promise.” Antonio rubbed his face angrily with is wrist but Lovino caught his hand in his, grip tight, never taking his eyes from those grass-green eyes. He smiled and ruffled his hair playfully, hating to see his face red like that. And he did not think the man cute. Nope. 

Damn it all to hell, he leant forward and kissed that adorable pout, fingers light against the Spaniard’s temple. 

“Lovi… I’m scared,” he confessed after they pulled back. 

“I know, tesoro. So am I.” He pulled him close once again, breathing in the scent of his shampoo. “So am I… But I say we face everything as it comes.” He eyes the scattered chips and the disoriented state of the living room with disgust. “For instance, let’s try to get the living room in a domestic state again, shall we?”

**Author's Note:**

> Romano might or might not have a book about pregnancy or two hidden under their bed and he might or might not read when Spain is asleep in his arms.  
> Spain found the books once. Romano doesn’t need to know that. 
> 
> \---  
> Alvarez Fernandez Carriedo – Portugal
> 
> Lars Van Dyke (or Van Rijn, since I can’t decide) – Netherlands
> 
> Romano has love-handles.- end of story. 
> 
> Yes, he does wear /only/ designer clothes. 
> 
> Also, Romano is the seme. No questioning there. Yes, they do switch sometimes, because he’s also a bit of a sadist/masochist (both of them are) and does in fact like being fucked in the ass now and then. Apart from that, no, my boy is a seme. Spain was born uke. Just look at that face. (Though, when we’re talking about younger Lovino being in a relationship with Antonio, not chibi, but still younger, okay, Spain can be seme all he wants.) I can talk about seme!Romano forever. Somebody stop me. 
> 
> In my head canon, Romano is friends with England and in good terms with Portugal and Netherlands. Yes, I do ship NethPort and these two often act bitchy towards Spain –Alvarez mainly teases him while Lars most of the time just doesn’t care. Oh, and of course Alvarez and Arthur are good friends. That being said, Romano and England are my brotp while along with the infamous BTT I have Romano with England and Portugal, sometimes Netherlands, too, because, why not? 
> 
> Lovino doesn’t make a habit of speaking endearments –that’s Antonio’s job- but he does call Antonio “tesoro” sometimes when he’s feeling really affectionate. Along with “idiota” and “stronzo” and “(tomato) bastard”. 
> 
> There’s more Spamano/RomaSpa where that came from. And I am also planning some mpreg drabbles/oneshots. With pregnant!Spain, of course. There is not enough pregnant!Spain out there. Nah-uh.  
> So many fluffy images in my head. Make them go away.


End file.
